


Anna and the Angel

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, M/M, Non-Sexual Slavery, POV Outsider, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 04:23:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19760524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Anna's Papa has owned a demon for all the time that she's been alive. She's never really questioned it, until Papa made the demon kill one of her classmates.Crowley, for his part, just wants to go home.Forthis kink meme promptwhere Crowley is trapped and enslaved by a cruel human who hurts him and makes him do awful things, and Aziraphale saves him. Content warnings for violence, non-canonical character death, Crowley being forced to murder a teenager.





	Anna and the Angel

Papa never let her alone, now that she was sixteen. He always made the demon chaperone her, which was weird and creepy and hard to explain to potential boyfirneds. The demon had belonged to Papa since before Anna was born; he was the secret, Papa said, to their success. You don’t need a group of enforcers when you’ve got a demon at your beck and call. 

The demon followed her when she went out at night to the movie theater, almost casually. He stayed just within eyesight of her. He reported back to Papa, which was annoying, because Papa had some frankly medieval attitudes about boys, and she knew the demon had scared off at least three potential boyfriends in the past year. 

So it had been with great trepidation that she’d invited Louis back to her room, and told him to sneak in. Louis was so attractive — _so, so attractive_ — and Anna was sixteen, and she was in love with him, and he was in love with her and he hadn’t been scared off when she’d told him that the demon was her bodyguard. He snuck in under cover of darkness, but upset the dogs. 

Shit. She shinnied out of her window, down to grab Fang and Razor (Papa had named them, not Anna), running across the lawn to where the demon was arguing with Louis. 

“Look, just go! Scram! Get out of here!” 

“You’re holding her captive here,” said Louis, sticking his chin up. “Why doesn’t her father let her out without a chaperone?” 

“This is not the time for this discussion!” The demon flapped his hands. “Run, you idiot mortal! If her father catches you, he’ll make me—” The demon choked. 

“He’ll make you what?” asked Papa, and Anna’s heart froze. “Annabelle, do you know this man?” 

“Papa, this is Louis,” she said, her hand on Fang’s collar. 

“Please,” said the demon. “They’re just kids. They’re doing what kids do.” 

“Louis,” said Papa. “You thought you’d sneak in here and steal my daughter’s virtue.” 

“No,” said Anna, and the demon gave her a look that communicated _shut up_ without saying anything. “No, I invited him. I wanted him to come.” 

“I’ll deal with you later,” said Papa. “Demon. Kill him.” 

“Please no,” said the demon. “No, I’ll — I’ll —” His back arched, and then he flopped like a puppet with all its strings cut. 

“You will obey me,” said Papa, hand on his amulet. “Whether you want to or not.” 

“No!” Anna ran at Papa, but an outstretched hand and a wall of force held her back, his magic glowing slightly in the gloom of the night. Louis had started to run, but so had the demon — running like he wasn’t in control of his limbs, like a mad tumble, a flailing rush that caught up to Louis and— 

Anna couldn’t watch, but she had to. The demon tore Louis apart, his screaming muffled by Papa’s magic, his death slow and agonising. It took twenty minutes for it to end. It felt like a lifetime. 

The demon loped back to Papa’s side, his face wet with blood and tears. 

“There, my darling girl,” said Papa. “Nothing’s ever going to take you from me.” 

____________

Crowley went to his cage numbly. It had been a while since the boss had had him kill, and this — this child had been full of bright love, fresh and puppyish, and it hurt Crowley’s heart to see the boy’s blood under his fingernails. He hated killing; he was always more the aggravator than the aggressor, always had been. 

He’d killed a child. Aziraphale would never want him back now. 

He’d come around to the fact that no-one other than Aziraphale was looking for him. No-one would come to get him, good or ill, until his angel finally got here. Heaven hadn’t blinked when Mori had used him as a tool to kill off his business competitors (literally) and Hell didn’t seem to care that some jumped-up human had captured one of their own. His wings were clipped, a controlling sigil burned into the flesh of his back. Who knew — perhaps Hell liked it, liked the fact that Crowley was no longer a threat? He just had to hope he wasn’t too tainted to want — or that Aziraphale would be swift and merciful in pronouncing Crowley’s death.

His back teeth tasted like iron. There was a scrap of meat stuck in the gap between molars. 

He wanted to be sick. 

The door opened slowly, hesitantly. The person who opened it was using their phone as a torch, and they carried a gun. Anna. 

“Why did you kill Louis?” she asked, and in the dull light reflected from the phone, he could see her eyes were puffy and red. 

“I’m a tool of your papa,” he said. “He wielded me.” 

“Why didn’t you stop him?” 

There wasn’t any point in showing her the oozing sigil on his back, bloody and painful from where he’d tried to fight the compulsion, even as it had taken him over. She looked at him, all blue eyes, and he suddenly ached for Aziraphale so much that it nearly doubled him over. Aziraphale, who’d smite him back to Hell in seconds if he knew what Crowley had done tonight. 

“Why?” she asked, choking on the word, and then she shot him. He couldn’t discorporate under the terms of the spell; the bullet passed through his shoulder and embedded in his wing. He’d keep going even if he was packed full of bullets until he clinked. 

Anna dropped the gun, seemingly shocked at herself. She was a mobster’s daughter — trained to defend herself — but he didn’t think she’d ever shot a person-shaped being before. Crowley hissed, making an effort to ensure the gun didn’t go off. He’d learned not to cry out. It had been nearly twenty years — he knew not to cry out. 

“I told him to go,” said Crowley, his torn shoulder the new centre of his world. “I told him to go, and he wouldn’t.” He swallowed. She still had the gun at her feet. “Quickly. Before your papa comes to investigate. Shoot me in the head.” It wouldn’t discorporate him, he didn’t think, but it might stop him thinking. It might stop him knowing what terrible things he was doing. 

“What?” she asked. “No!” 

“You shot me in the shoulder,” he said. “Shoot me in the head. Make it fast. I won’t die, I promise. I’ll just… I might…” 

Too late. Mori was there, just behind Anna. He looked at Crowley in satisfaction. 

“There now, little one,” said Mori. 

“Papa!” She flinched. “I didn’t — I didn’t mean to— I’m just so —” 

“You shot him,” said Mori, interestedly. “I didn’t think you had the stomach for it, darling girl. Not after last time.” 

“He killed Louis!” 

“He did,” said Mori, and Crowley’s heart sank as Mori bent to pick up the gun. 

“I’m just so angry and so—” Anna swiped at her eyes, furiously. 

Mori unclicked the safety. “Taking your anger out on the demon is the right thing to do. It was his fault, after all.” He smiled. “Come on, demon. Stretch out your wings.” 

____________

The demon was still dripping blood the next morning as it made breakfast. A human would have died by now, but whatever kept the demon going let him stand upright and cook eggs and bacon, like there was nothing at all wrong in the world. Anna was ashamed. She was so ashamed, in the light of day. What had seemed logical the night before was, in the daylight, horrific. 

The demon’s wings were black, and moth-eaten. She wondered if they’d ever been nice, like a raven’s wings, sleek and glossy like an oil-slick. It made breakfast, then it mopped the floor, sweeping up feathers. 

Three people had texted her to ask if she’d seen Louis. Sick with guilt, she left them all on read. 

“I don’t think I want to go to school today,” she said. She might blurt it all out if asked. But what would she say? Her father’s captive demon had killed Louis? So she’d shot the demon? But it hadn’t died? 

“All right, sweetpea,” said her father. “You stay home. Crowley, you’re on guard duty. I’ll give you your instructions before I leave.” 

Anna sighed. Of course the demon was on guard duty. She went upstairs to sit in bed and watch Netflix, but then her email chimed with a note from Sister Agatha that her assignment for Religious Studies was due tomorrow, whether she was sick or not. That was the worst part of St Catherine’s School for Girls. They assumed that unless you were actually dead, anything else was malingering. 

She had to research an angel and write a report on its miraculous deeds. She wondered, vaguely, if angels really existed. They had a demon who lived in their basement and did things for Papa — maybe there were angels, too? She’d googled their demon, years ago, and discovered little hints to him throughout history. He was old. Really old. 

She googled “Angels with Names” and got Wikipedia. She wondered if she should do one like Azrael or Lucifer to be funny, but then she didn’t think she could deal with funny. Not after last night. She just wanted to forget any of it had ever happened. 

Maybe an angel could fix things. Maybe an angel could come and bring Louis back. 

There were paintings of the angels on one of the sites, and she picked one that looked friendly. He didn’t have a sword or a spear, and there was nothing sticking out of his sides like there seemed to be with most of the saints. He was wearing a white robe, and standing between a giant snake and some frightened looking children, just him holding back the serpent. 

_Azriphael Defends the Children_ , the caption said. She clicked through. Oh, it was a triptych — the angel standing between the snake and the children, then him approaching the snake with open palms, and then the snake with its head on his knee, calm and no longer a threat. The children were petting it. 

Her heart ached, suddenly; a sharp longing for something she couldn’t name. She wanted this angel to be real; this angel who could charm snakes and make them docile, who didn’t have to resort to violence. A deep, dark shame hung about her like rainclouds. 

“Anna?” asked a quiet voice from behind her. She’d never asked the demon why he had a British accent. “Anna, it’s lunch—” He sucked in a breath as he took in what was on her screen, and then, as if he couldn’t help himself. “Aziraphale.” 

She turned in her seat. “You know this angel?” 

The demon made a sad noise, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “Very well,” he said. 

“Then you can help me write this report,” she said. 

“I don’t think I count as a reliable source for your reference list,” said the demon. He was looking longingly at her screen. 

“Is he real, then?” 

“Very.” 

“Do you still see him?” she asked. “Could you summon him here?” 

“If I could,” said the demon, “I’d have done it twenty years ago.” He looked old. So old that he might be older than the world.

She knew the basics about the demon. Papa had summoned him, therefore he had to do what Papa said. She’d thought, when she was younger, that he was something that the summoning had created out of the ether — that he’d been formless before he was summoned, that each historical instance of him was a blink between discorporations. But here he was, looking sadly at a Renaissance painting, and — and tears were welling in his yellow snake eyes. He didn’t seem to know he was crying. 

“Could he— could he help?” she asked. “Could he make it so that Louis wasn’t dead?” 

“No, little Anna,” said the demon, and it had been years and years since he’d called her that. “No one can change that. But he could help, in a fashion.” 

“How?” she asked. 

He didn’t answer. Instead, he smiled, false and bright. “Come on,” he said. “It’s time for lunch.” 

_____________

Crowley didn’t like serving the forgetfulness draught to the girl. He had no choice; and, hopefully, it would cover more than the previous night. Hopefully, it would cover the mention of Aziraphale, delete her mental browser history, take them all a step further away from salvation. He’d nearly blurted it out in her room — you can find him, he has a bookshop, tell him to come here and smite your father, and me, and this cursed mansion down to the ground — but the compulsion had caught his tongue and tied it into knots. 

He couldn’t act autonomously even if he wanted to. 

The police came to the door looking for the missing boy, and he did a small miracle to their minds — supported by the small miracle that had cleaned up the blood, supported by the small miracle that showed the boy on the CCTV at the local bus shelter, waiting for a bus that would carry his memory away, never to return. Mori had learned to be specific in his instructions, over the past twenty years. Crowley had learned not to push back. 

Sometimes he hated himself so much he thought he might be able to die, just from sheer self-loathing. An unsuitable suitor was far from his worst murder in the hands of Mori. Aziraphale would be right to smite him. 

He thought about the Ark, sometimes. Sometimes Armageddon. Sometimes World War I, in the trenches; sometimes watching the first space launch, he and Aziraphale cheering these stupid, glorious humans as their feet left the planet. Sometimes it was Da Vinci, arguments in his studio. Sometimes it was Guttenberg. Sometimes it was just that one, glorious sleep where he’d done nothing for a century. It was easy to retreat into his head, in his cage, stroking his own feathers, pretending he wasn’t there; pretending it was Aziraphale, mantling him, taking the pain away. 

At first, Mori had left it locked. It had taken a while for him to learn that he didn’t need a physical lock to keep his demon at bay; but by that stage, it had grown convenient, and Crowley supposed he’d become compliant, like the dogs settling in their crates for the night. 

He had no duties for the afternoon, beyond guarding the girl, so he retreated to his cage with a kitchen knife and spread out his wings, slowly, carefully. The remaining bullets were easy enough to lever out, and the wings stopped oozing blood once he’d done it — they’d heal, in their preternatural way. His shoulder was already turning into a mass of scar tissue on the messy exit wound. He remembered the parties, back when Anna’s mother was still alive, and shuddered. He’d tried to discorporate himself many times, but the spell always stopped him. It was too powerful — so powerful. Crowley thought the amulet might be something from beyond human memory. 

Humans were worse than anything Hell could dream up, or that Heaven could impose. He’d thought that he was on their side, but he’d had some time to reconsider. 

He left the knife in the cage, and shuffled upstairs to begin dinner. Anna hopped into the kitchen, all excitement. 

“Proof-read my assignment?” she asked, brandishing her laptop. She’d forgotten the night before. When her friends asked her about Louis, she’d cock her head and smile prettily. _I don’t know_ , she’d say. _Maybe he’s at Betty’s house?_

“All right,” he said, and sat down to look at it. 

“Your wings are a horrible mess,” she said. “I thought demons and angels were meant to have nice wings.” 

_Aziraphael the Peacemaker_ , the title read, and Crowley’s heart sank, getting tied into knots in his stomach. 

“This is an unusual angel to pick,” he said, breathless. Dammit. She must have started typing it properly before the draught. 

“He’s such a great one, though!” said Anna. “He’s so nice, and he likes people, and he can charm snakes, and he’s the patron of pasty chefs and libraries, although I don’t really know how those things go together.” 

“Because he likes pastries and books,” said Crowley, before he could stop himself. 

“Do you know him?” asked Anna, an eerie echo of her earlier question. 

“No,” said Crowley, and even he could hear how unconvincing he sounded. 

“Is he real?” 

“Angels aren’t real.” 

She looked at him, steely-eyed. “Does my father make you say that?” 

He couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. 

“I know what the forgetting spell feels like,” she said, suddenly, viciously. “I know. It feels like your head is all foggy. Will you tell me what happened that I forgot?” 

“I can’t,” he said, airless. 

“Will you tell me why you won’t tell me about this angel?” 

He shook his head. 

“So he is real,” she said. “Would he save us? You and me?” 

He was frozen in place. Would Aziraphale save them? 

He didn’t know. 

_________

Aziraphale realised it was morning when the sun filtered in through the blinds, casting a beam of light onto the lush display of plants by the back window, tinting everything slightly amber and slightly green. He sighed, and stood. Stretched. 

“Good morning, my dears,” he said to the plants. They rustled companionably. “Another day, another day.” 

He made coffee, and gave the grounds to the small kitchen compost bin. He sat, with his toast, and a terrible feeling of emptiness inside that was not assuaged by the plants, nor was it calmed by the quiet morning. He’d go out to the storage garage today, and put leather preserver on the seats of the Bentley. He’d sit in that beautiful car, and think of Crowley, and he’d manifest his true self and try, try to find him. 

He didn’t believe Crowley had left of his own accord. 

Of course that was what Heaven had said, when Aziraphale had reported it as a strange happening. They’d thought Hell had finally caught up with Crowley, but then a frightened, many-bodied demon had found Aziraphale and asked _him_ , because nothing had been getting done in London for months, and Aziraphale seemed to be the best source for Crowley-related information. 

Aziraphale, who had been searching in vain for nearly a year at that point, had given the poor frightened demon an icecream and an injunction to _tell him_ the second that Crowley was found. Even if it was bad news. 

It had been years and years. It was, by now, certainly going to be bad news. 

Aziraphale nearly didn’t click on the email. He tended to get an horrific mess of emails every morning — a number of bargain book newsletters and daily deals, the odd unnecessary penis-enlargement offer, and spam from every company he’d ever bought from. He had feeds and groups on every site on the internet, searching for anything that might be Crowley — anything that would give him a clue as to where his demon had gone. Years of fruitless searching didn’t discourage him. 

Well, that’s what he told himself. 

Of course, Heaven emailed him every so often; nothing serious, just memos and reminders and any excuse to use the urgent exclamation mark. He thought the email was from Heaven — marked URGENT and ANGEL AZIRAPHAEL — until he realised that the sender was called Anna Mori, and the email address was gmail. 

“I’m looking for the angel Aziraphael,” he read aloud. “I have reason to believe that he knows the demon who serves my father.” 

Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He wrung his hands, staring at the screen — this had to be a joke. It had to be Hell or Heaven playing a joke on him. But who…? 

He couldn’t risk it. 

“Please advise whereabouts,” he typed, hands shaking. “He has been missing some time and I would very much like him back.” 

It didn’t take long for his email to ping. 

“I have conditions. I want to come too.” 

___________

Anna was proud of herself — she’d dug deep into the internet and come up trumps. Once she knew that Aziraphael was a patron of libraries and pastries, it had been a hop, skip and a jump to find the bookshop (well, a bit more than that, but she was resourceful). And it had only taken a look at the demon’s stricken face, his inability to speak, to know she’d got it right. 

Though, the angel didn’t sound angelic in his emails. He wanted the demon back. That was the kind of thing that men like Papa wanted — demons to serve them. Anna was out of options — and she rather thought that Louis’s disappearance might have had something to do with Papa, and the forgetting draught she’d woken up from — so she had to take a chance. 

She and Papa sat opposite at the dinner table, and he asked her about her day. She’d have rather done anything else. 

“Darling,” he said. “And have they worked out where that missing classmate of yours went?” 

She shrugged. “Florida, I think.” 

“Dangerous place. You might get eaten by an alligator.” She didn’t think she imagined the look her father gave the demon. “Or a snake.” 

The knocking at the front door was unexpected. Someone had gotten past the gates, past the dogs, past the security alarms, and was gently rapping at the door. Anna met her father’s eyes; he stood, hypervigilant. 

“Demon,” he said. “Get ready.” 

“Sir,” said the demon, as if it burned his mouth to say it. 

“Anna, do you have a gun?” 

“Yes, Papa,” she said. She’d learned to shoot when she was just a tiny thing. She’d learned to shoot moving targets not long after her father had told her the truth about the demon. 

“The demon will protect you, darling,” he said. “Papa’s just going to see who’s at the door.” 

She crept after him, because of course she did. The man who’d knocked on the door stood under the floodlights, looking rather bemused. 

“Oh my,” he said. “I — ah, — I seem to have broken down outside your house. I was wondering if I could use your—” He stopped. “ _Crowley._ ” 

He didn’t look like an angel. He looked like someone’s uncle, all soft and fluffy, and he did look kind. Behind her father, the demon looked like someone had shot him through the heart. 

“Angel,” said the demon. “Run. Run away from here, you can’t imagine what he’ll—he’s got an artefact, something—” He choked on his words. 

“Are you here of your own free will?” asked the man — Aziraphael, as he had to be. “Of your own volition?” 

And the demon couldn’t speak. He clawed at his throat, and tried and tried, but nothing came out. Anna felt sick — what if the angel left? What if the angel left them, and Papa worked it out, and— The angel snapped his fingers. 

“Of course I’m not,” said the demon, his voice ragged. “I’ve been trapped here for twenty years, Angel.” He dropped to his knees. “The things I’ve done…” 

The man’s face softened, seemingly oblivious to Papa’s rising anger as the demon wept. “Oh my dear,” said Aziraphael. “Oh my darling. It’s all right. It’s all right now. I’m here.” 

“Demon,” snapped Papa, his hand closing around the amulet on his neck. “Kill this man.” 

“No,” said Aziraphael. He didn’t raise his voice, or change his tone, and that was somehow the worst part. “That’s not going to happen.” 

Anna had to shield her eyes from the light of Heaven, as the angel did something and transformed; when she looked again, blinking away after-images, he was dressed in proper white robes like an angel in a painting, and he was carrying a burning sword. His halo burned, and he had too many eyes, and looking at him was like staring straight into the sun. 

“Oh,” said the angel, like the sword was a surprise. “They must have got my replacement requisition form.” He turned to where Anna was hiding. “Young lady. I suggest that you might not wish to be present for this. Run along.” 

His tone brooked no argument. She ran out into the kitchen, and through to the yard, and only just made it past the fountain when there was an incredible flash of light, brighter than the last, brighter than fireworks, brighter than the dawn, and the earth beneath her started to shake. 

_____________

Crowley woke in a hotel bed, which was not unprecedented, but given where he’d left off consciousness, was surprising. He was alone, and his wings were out but bandaged, and his back _ached_ like nothing else, but he felt light — lighter than he had in years. 

The door opened. He tensed. 

“Oh, you _are_ awake,” said Aziraphale. “I thought I felt something.” He gazed at Crowley, unbearably tender. “How do you feel, my dear?” 

Aziraphale was here. Aziraphale, his Aziraphale, was here. Crowley hid under the blanket. 

He felt the bed dip, and a gentle hand rested on his shoulder. “I shan’t make you come out,” said Aziraphale, “but you ought to know I’m overjoyed to see you.” 

His memory was wobbly, but it came back to him in fits and starts. Aziraphale, at Mori’s door. Aziraphale, manifesting his full angelic form. Aziraphale, smiting — smiting — and Crowley had thought he’d be burned out of existence, able to stop thinking, stop suffering, stop _being_. He didn’t know how he’d ended up here. 

“I’m afraid you’ll be a little sore,” said Aziraphale. “I had to burn that — that damned sigil — off your back. If you want to come out later, I’ll change the dressings on it.” His tone was confident, but his voice slightly watery. “Oh my dear, that you were forced into that for twenty years. I— I looked for you. I honestly did. I failed you so badly.” 

That was enough to rouse him. Bad enough that he’d done the things he’d done under Mori’s control — worse that Aziraphale thought it was his fault. 

“No,” said Crowley, struggling with the blankets. “No, it wasn’t your fault — it —” He managed to break free, and then sat up, staring at Aziraphale, drinking him in. “I got captured. Like an idiot. And the things I did—” 

“Were not your fault,” said Aziraphale. 

“I killed children,” said Crowley, because he needed Aziraphale to know, he needed to tell before Aziraphale got in too deep. “I killed—” 

“If you think I believe that you’re capable of doing that on your own volition, then you truly have forgotten yourself,” said Aziraphale, taking both his hands. “I remember the Ark. And Sodom and Gomorrah — you risked everything saving that group of children from destruction.” 

“It wasn’t their fault that their parents were—” Crowley began, and Aziraphale gathered him into a hug, and oh, oh, his wings were manifested and he was mantling Crowley, safe and secure in his warm-smelling feathers. 

He realised, belatedly, that Aziraphale was weeping. 

“Don’t cry,” he said, weakly. “I — don’t.” 

“Let me have this,” said Aziraphale, and so Crowley clung to him, and let him. 

____________

Anna was dead scared of the angel. The demon — the demon looked mean, but he’d always been nice, when Papa wasn’t using him as a glorified puppet. The angel looked nice, but he was _mean_ , the sort of mean that snuck up behind you and did things when you weren’t looking. And she and the dogs were stuck in a suite with them, because the sinkhole that had opened up under the house had swallowed four city blocks in the end, and so she was homeless, and Papa was dead, and she thought it might be all her own fault. 

The angel wouldn’t let her near the demon. He’d insisted that she share a suite with them, but the instant she tried to go near the demon’s room, the angel was there, Aziraphael, the one the internet had said was so nice, looking like he might murder her if she even thought about talking to the demon. He’d taken her with them, although it was clear he didn’t like her. She had no idea why, until he’d said “this was the deal, wasn’t it?” and she realised that she might have made a deal with something much, much worse than her sad old demon Crowley. 

She was watching CNN about the revelations about the Mori empire, and the daughter who’d gone missing, when three people in suits showed up in the main room of the hotel suite. 

“Hello there,” said the tallest. He was old, and he had purple eyes, and he looked like he might be venomous. “You must be Anna Mori.” 

“Who are you?” she asked, determined to stay brave. 

“I’m the Archangel Gabriel,” said the man, sleek as a shark. “My, you’ve got yourself into some hot water, haven’t you? I hear Hell doesn’t know whether to slow-roast your father or put him on a throne.” 

There was suddenly a lump in her throat. 

“Gabriel,” said Aziraphael, crisp and cold. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“Ah, Aziraphale,” said Gabriel. “This is business, not pleasure.” He kept staring at Anna, and Aziraphael stepped in front of her. 

“I will remind you that we believe in forgiveness,” said Aziraphael. 

“Says the angel who destroyed a whole slice of LA,” said one of the other angels, because if they were with Gabriel, that’s what they had to be. “You’re lucky you didn’t set off the San Andreas Fault.” 

“Sometimes an example has to be made,” said Aziraphael, still staring at Gabriel. “I believe you once tried to make an example of me. I don’t think—” 

Gabriel held up his hands. “Whoa there, cowboy,” he said. “I’m here with a commendation.” 

“A commendation?” asked Aziraphael. He frowned. “What?” 

“You wrested control of a powerful demon from a downright evil human,” said the third angel. “The aftershocks on the ethereal plane have actually made that spell that he used completely ineffective. I’d love to know how you did it.” 

“I burned the power right out of it,” said Aziraphael, sounding slightly confused. “I—” 

“The commendation has come right from the top,” said Gabriel. “You get a gold star and a performance bonus.” 

“A performance bonus,” said Aziraphael, faintly. “Right. And what of Anna?” 

“Anna,” said Gabriel, turning to her. “Anna, Anna, Anna.” 

“She knows her own name,” said the third angel. “Get to the point.” 

“I want to go home,” she said. 

“Your home doesn’t exist any more,” said Gabriel, pityingly. She wanted to kick him. 

“I want to go back to LA, then,” she said. “I can stay with my Grandma.” 

“Is that really what you want?” asked Aziraphael. “If you get caught up in the sort of magic your father was doing, you will share his fate.” 

“I don’t want anything to do with magic ever again,” she said, tears threatening. How many times had she hurt the demon? How long until he told this frightening, frightening angel, and then all the angels came for her? It didn’t seem fair that hurting demons wasn’t allowed. 

“Well,” said Gabriel. “Well indeed.” 

“Wipe her memory,” said Aziraphael. “She can wake up at the bottom of the sinkhole and be found by rescuers.” He looked at the dogs. “Her loyal dogs can lead them to her.” 

“What if they don’t find me?” she asked. 

“Do you want to live with the memories?” asked Aziraphael. “Or do you want to be free?” 

She swallowed. She knew what she wanted. 

______________

Aziraphale booked their tickets home first class, and then spent the whole flight coddling Crowley — his performance bonus, he’d been told, was Heaven turning a blind eye to whatever he wanted to do with the demon. Crowley didn’t particularly _want_ to be coddled, if you listened to him, but he melted into to being tucked under a soft first class blanket, and having his food inspected for him, and having Aziraphale stroke his hair until he fell asleep, so that was all right. 

Aziraphale was tired, to tell the truth. He hadn’t truly manifested like that in a long, long time. He felt like he hadn’t truly rested since Crowley had gone missing. He felt like the muscles in his spine were all just falling gently back into place, relaxed for once. 

He got Crowley back to his bookshop, and they settled on the shop floor, where Crowley’s plants were still (miraculously) alive and filling in every possible extra space, and there was still a comfortable couch that invited reading and snoozing. They shared wine for the first time in twenty years, and didn’t talk about anything. 

“Aziraphale,” said Crowley, eventually, after the second bottle was empty and they’d started on the third. “Can I see your wings?” 

Aziraphale had seen Crowley’s poor, abused wings; he’d groomed them every day since the rescue in an attempt to let the feathers grow back in properly. They’d been clipped, and they’d been hurt, and they’d been broken; Crowley, who’d always been so proud of his sleek black feathers, was a tatterwinged wreck. 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and he manifested his wings. They were fine — a little unkempt, but nothing terrible. “Of course, my dear. You can have anything you’d like.” 

“Sit on the floor in front of me,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale felt a little frisson when he did so — perhaps from having Crowley back, or perhaps from Crowley feeling brave enough to give him orders. 

He felt Crowley’s fingers in his feathers almost immediately. 

“You killed Mori,” said Crowley, finger-combing Aziraphale’s right wing. “You smote him. I didn’t think anyone smote evil anymore.” He smoothed the flat of his palm over one section of the wing, and moved to another. “But you haven’t fallen. You caused so much destruction, and you didn’t fall.” 

“He was evil,” said Aziraphale. “You know, I never really understood what you meant when you said that humans were more evil that either above or below.” He swallowed. “I wish I didn’t know now. The things he made you do... unforgivable.” 

“How did you find me?” Crowley was being so tender with Aziraphale’s feathers, so careful. Aziraphale wondered if it was as comforting for Crowley as it was for him. 

“That girl wrote to me,” said Aziraphale, and he felt tears well, unbidden. He blinked them away. They’d both wept enough. “I searched for so long, and in the end, I didn’t even find you. You found me.” 

The injuries to Crowley’s body had been horrific, but the injuries to Crowley’s heart were worse, Aziraphale suspected. He could do nothing about them. The girl had been found, as planned, and she was now the heiress to a major fortune built on the wreck of Crowley’s goodness. 

But no, Crowley was running his fingers through Aziraphale’s feathers. There was still goodness in him. 

“I thought about this,” said Crowley, out of nowhere. “When it got too much. He made me keep my fucking wings manifested all the time, and they got so ragged, but if I let myself, I could close my eyes and put my hands on them and imagine it was you.” 

Aziraphale tried not to tremble, but it was useless. Crowley kept stroking his wings. 

“And now my eyes are open and I can see you,” he said, wonderingly. 

“I’m so fucking sorry,” said Aziraphale, because sometimes profanity was necessary, and Crowley slid off the couch, boneless, and practically slithered into his lap. Embarassingly, Aziraphale’s wings seemed to act of their own accord — he kept mantling Crowley whenever he was able, creating a protective cave of pure white feathers around them both, as if he could keep out the world. 

“You killed him,” said Crowley, eyes alight in the comforting gloom of their own little universe. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.” 

It was impossible to tell which one of them initiated the kiss, but it was Crowley who took both of Aziraphale’s hands and led him to bed. 

_______________

Crowley napped in the sun, a lazy sleepiness taking over his whole being. He could probably sleep for a century, but he thought that might worry Aziraphale, and he wasn’t entirely sure how one dealt with a nightmare over an extended period of dozing. But Aziraphale had shifted the comfortable couch right to where a sunbeam would hit it for the best part of the day, and Crowley had claimed it, and while Aziraphale pottered about, Crowley relaxed, and let his body bake. 

The burn on his back was just about healed. What had been an oozing, untreatable brand was now a shiny rectangle of wrecked flesh, no discernible pattern on its surface or underneath. No mark of control. No amulet — Aziraphale had exploded it. 

Now that he was some months from the horror of his imprisonment, he was given to fantasise not about the things he’d thought of when he was trapped, which had begun with daydreams about arguments and lunches, and slowly morphed into desperate wishes for forgiveness and a strong desire to be held in Aziraphale’s wings, but about his rescue. It had been really very dramatic; his whole being had frozen, seeing Aziraphale standing at the door. He’d thought that his hope that his angel would come for him was just a daydream. He’d known how complete and how lasting Mori’s spells were. 

He’d also only seen an angel smite evil once before, and he hadn’t really been in a position to enjoy it at the time. Aziraphale manifesting a flaming sword and bringing it down in judgement on the man who’d brough Hell to Earth — well, it was enough to make him feel a bit swoony, especially because Aziraphale turned back into a mild-mannered bookshop owner, just one who could secretly destroy an entire neighbourhood just to teach everyone in it a lesson. 

He’d thought the angel was going to kill him next, when Aziraphale had advanced with the sword. And really, he wouldn’t have minded. It would have been oblivion, and living without Aziraphale’s affection — and knowing that his actions, that his stupid, stupid actions in getting caught and forced into things had been the cause — would have been torture. He’d have had to find a way to do it to himself, had Aziraphale rejected him. 

Aziraphale hadn’t killed him. Aziraphale had taken him back to London, and found him a warm spot to lie in, and fixed his wings, and loved him despite everything. It was enough to give even a jaded demon some faith. 

Aziraphale telegraphed his movement toward the couch. They’d learned that — sneaking up on Crowley was not conducive to anything other than a panic attack and an ungainly flail of limbs. Crowley opened his eyes, and held out his arms. 

“Come and enjoy a sunbeam,” he said, and Aziraphale sighed a little, but got onto the couch with him. They’d made it wide enough for two, in the early days of Crowley’s return. 

“I’ve made a reservation for us at the most delightful Indian place,” said Aziraphale, settling his head on Crowley’s chest, tucking their bodies together, legs tangled, Crowley’s arms around him. He was a comforting weight, a reminder that this was real. A lazy wave of his hand locked the shop door. “Oooh, you’re all nice and warm.” 

“How long have we got until then?” 

“Three hours,” said Aziraphale. “But only one hour until this sunbeam moves, and before you start, no I cannot move the sun so that it stays for three more hours.” 

“You can,” said Crowley. “You just don’t want to.” 

“Upstairs would do something horrible to me.” 

“No they wouldn’t. You’re the hero of the hour.” 

Aziraphale was, rather, the hero of the hour. It appeared that somehow, Nico Mori had stumbled upon a series of ancient spells from the Lillim, which would have been inconvenient to both Heaven and Hell. There was no way Aziraphale should have been able to assert his will over Mori and that stupid amulet, but he had, hadn’t he? Crowley had heard, from a minor demon sent up to grovel at him and tell him how pleased Hell was that he was back on the beat because you wouldn’t _believe_ how ineffective Hastur had been at looking after London, that everyone was rather frightened of Aziraphale now. The poor thing had been looking over its shoulder the whole time, and when it had seen Aziraphale turning away from the ice-cream cart with a lolly in each hand, it had squeaked and run away. 

Aziraphale made a happy little noise into Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley squeezed him, unable to prevent himself, and in return Aziraphale patted his chest. 

“I’m so pleased to have you back,” he said, and closed his eyes.

Sometimes Crowley wondered if this was a dream, but he seldom did when it was Aziraphale pressed against him. He smelled right, too, something the dreams had never managed to replicate.

“So am I,” he said, into Aziraphale’s hair. He’d still wake up in fear some nights, or not sleep at all. He’d still feel phantom pains, or terrible guilt, or all sorts of things unbecoming of a demon. But somehow, slowly, things were getting better. 

They lay there until the sunbeam fled, and then, arm-in-arm, went out to dinner. Crowley even felt well enough to manifest what might be a Banksy on a wall in an alley, which would guarantee people lined up for days to put it on the internet, and argue over its provenance. 

“My dear,” said Aziraphale, chidingly, and Crowley felt himself freeze — surely this wasn’t the act that…? — But then he caught sight of the smile on Aziraphale’s face, and Aziraphale hugged him close with one arm, kissing his temple. “That is _hilarious_ ,” he whispered, and together they walked to a delightful little take-out, and Crowley felt like his heart had wings.


End file.
